


Warning Aziraphale

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Series: Absconding with Harry verse [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Absconding with Harry verse, Aziraphale is a little bit of a bastard, Crowley as Raphael, Crowley is an awful demon, Crowley's flat is absolutely depressing and will not suit a child, He was a healer once, M/M, This binch is gonna be one again, mentions of abuse, talk of malnourishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: “I stole a kid and he’s living in your flat now because it’s more kid-friendly. Names Harry. Nice kid. Smart. You’ll like him.”





	Warning Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> Immediately follows Crowley absconding with Harry. Aziraphale is brought into this mess.

The child—"Harry, just Harry”—is a slip of a thing. There’s hardly anything on him. It doesn’t make Crowley feel any more inclined to have let that woman—“aunt Petunia”—get away with everything she’s done to terrorise the poor boy, but it is another reason for him to make her home foundations rot at an accelerated rate.

It’s not quite evil enough in Crowley’s opinion but Aziraphale had steadfastly refused to allow him to go and terrify them to madness.

A pity[1].

Crowley’s first order of business is to feed Harry and try and get some actual muscle tone happening with the kid. He’d miracle it on but he knows from previous experience with malnourished children that sometimes it’s better to let the body recover naturally. A broken bone, open wounds, missing limbs, those are things he could heal and not bat a wing at. But malnourishment is something else.

That is Famine’s domain and Famine is a possessive bastard.

So Crowley gets in a lot of food—delivered to Aziraphale’s shop because, well, Crowley’s flat isn’t really fitting for a child considering the overly depressed design of it all—and sets about preparing highly nutritious meals and snacks for Harry. He settles for a run of the mill juice mix that seems to be all the rage for kids these days—at least, that’s how it appeared when he checked the ASDA website and saw their list of Best Buys—and distracts Harry with a big glass of the stuff and the miracled-into-existence TV mounted on the wall of the flat above Aziraphale’s shop[2].

“Mister Crowley,” Harry says, hesitantly from the doorway into the kitchen area of the flat. The kid is dressed in more form-fitting clothing with just enough give in them that he doesn’t actually look like a dressed skeleton with skin. It’s a far cry from the excessively large clothing he’d been in when Crowley had absconded with him[3].

“Yes,” Crowley replies, not looking up from the cook book he’s got stood in front of him on the counter. He’s been trying to figure out what the heck the writer is going on about for the past ten minutes but he’s on the brink of giving up and making this meal his way—he’s only got himself to blame for overly loquacious cook book writers; or did the angel take credit for that one, he can’t rightly recall?

“Why did you take me?”

The demon raises his head and looks at Harry. His glasses are on the bridge of his nose—owing to the fact that he’d gotten annoyed with the absurd colour scheme of the cook book and had to lower them in order to read grey print on pale blue paper—so his eyes are visible to the kid but Harry doesn’t even react to them.

It’s a quick reminder to how the child had reacted to them that day on the lawn outside Number Four.

“Welllll,” Crowley drawls, pulling a face. “Seemed like the thing to do, really[4].”

“But why?” Harry presses. “You told me you’re a demon. Aren’t demons meant to—well—be evil?”

“You learn that in school?” Crowley deflects, leaning against the countertop, the picture of relaxed. He’s not, but he’ll be damned—again—if he can’t pull it off at the drop of a—well—unexpected question from a nine-year-old child.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Harry points out, quite rightly, and Crowley’s gaze narrows a little. The child is smart but interprets Crowley’s narrowed gaze based on the previous experiences the child has to base it on. “Sorry.”

“Never be sorry for asking questions,” Crowley says suddenly, firmly, and he gives Harry a smile that’s a little strained but genuine. “You’re smart and smart is good. Being too smart can get you into trouble but—” his smile turns into a smirk “—sometimes that’s the best kind of smart to be.”

Harry takes that in, slowly processing Crowley’s advice, before a slight smile crosses his face. “Smart like asking lots of snakes to sneak into the house and scare my aunt, uncle and cousin?”

Crowley throws his head back and _laughs_.

“That,” he says, grinning now, “is the _best_ kind of smart, Harry.”

When Aziraphale comes back to the shop—after running on an errand for a rare edition of some book or manuscript, Crowley had stopped paying attention after the word “religion” got involved—Crowley cuts the angel off at the stairs to the first floor[5].

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, clutching his books to his chest automatically. Possessive bastard. “Wh—what are you doing here? I—well—I wasn’t expecting you until Thursday.”

Crowley tilts his head a little at the way Aziraphale a little panicked, obviously the angel hadn’t been expecting him—but this is a little excess—wait, it’s not _panicked_ , it’s _flustered_. And isn’t that interesting?

“Why are you—actually nevermind,” Crowley shakes his head. “I stole a kid and he’s living in your flat now because it’s more kid-friendly. Names Harry. Nice kid. Smart. You’ll like him.”

Aziraphale stares at him, spluttering in that wordless way someone who has a lot of questions but can’t managed to order them enough to ask them does. It’s endearingly adorable.

“Oh Crowley,” the angel sighs after a moment, smiling softly. “You absolutely are an _awful_ demon.”

Crowley grins. “And you’re a rubbish angel, angel.”

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

[1] Crowley will learn, about a month from now, that Aziraphale took it upon himself to pop over to Number Four Privet Drive and do some terrorising of his own.

[2] When the angel had opened his bookshop, he had unwittingly ended up with the first floor of the property as a dwelling. Now, since celestial beings seldom need sleep, Aziraphale has tended to make little use of the living space, tending to leave piles of unsorted books stacked as high as the ceiling. It takes Crowley a matter of moments to miracle the place into something approaching a liveable abode for a child, though he is careful to make sure the books are all placed neatly on bookshelves he miracled on the internal walls of most of the rooms so as to avoid Aziraphale’s possessive wrath.

[3] Crowley is aware that hell is going to be asking questions about the kid soon enough but he has a plan for that. Stealing kids is evil after all. Hell will consider his actions to be good—bad—good-in-a-bad-way and leave him be for a while.

[4] Crowley is—naturally—reluctant to state whether the right thing was good or bad considering he’s meant to be a demon and demons don’t do good things. But he has the Arrangement and his own habits toward doing Not Bad Things that, at this point, he’s more lying to himself than anything else.

[5] As an aside, the first floor of a British dwelling is, in America, the second floor. Here in the UK the floor that is on level with the rest of the bloody world is called the ground floor as it is, rightly, on ground level.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos ~~and sleep~~ sustain me :)


End file.
